


Manipulation

by The_Anglophile



Category: David Bowie (Musician), Ziggy Stardust and The Spiders From Mars (band)
Genre: Beauty Worship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Anglophile/pseuds/The_Anglophile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ziggy is getting out of control and his bandmates aren't sure how to deal with him.  When they do come up with a plan it leaves Ronno with a tough decision to make, but are his decisions in regard to Ziggy ever really his?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manipulation

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with David Bowie, and all likenesses and real names are employed in a strictly fictional context.

“It’s for his own good,” Trevor said. He stood at the end of the couch where David’s head lay lolled against a pillow, lips parted slightly, eyelashes brushing his cheeks. He was asleep, and he was utterly perfect. Even the sun coming in through the window made its best effort not to touch the snowy skin of his face; threatened, I supposed, by Mother Nature not to ruin her finest creation.

Yet that was exactly what we were about to do. For beneath that serenely exotic exterior was a mind that was woefully out of control, flinging itself against all boundaries in an attempt to transcend mere humanity to attain a state of godhood. Every day I lost a little more of the man that I once knew, and found myself in the company of a dangerous stranger who wanted to take me with him on his fiery ascension to the stars. I could not accept his insistent offers, and I even desired to stop him completing the journey – selfishly wanting him to return to me the old friend of mine he had seduced and held drugged and sedated in a dark corner of his labyrinthine mind.

Trevor and Woody had helped me convince myself that my desire _wasn’t_ selfish; that he needed rescuing, that he might not last another year without our aid. And he did seem to be wasting away – buying smaller and smaller clothes to fit his ever-slimming frame as he was eaten from the inside out by the monster he named Ziggy.

But oh what a terrible way to set him free! Trevor and Woody reasoned that without his music Ziggy would retreat, and I was forced to agree. We had it all carefully planned. We had a doctor to confirm all we said, and even Tony and Angie were prepared to look the other way, to back up our story. He would, very tragically, break both his hands under the weight of his own stage equipment as it was being moved. Understandably hysterical, his raving stories of betrayal would be regarded with pity by the press while they wrote down the real event as relayed by his kind, understanding friends. Friends who would stay by his side on the long, painful road to recovery. Out of the limelight, perhaps Ziggy would give up and go home to whichever planet he came from, deciding he had no more use for this broken mortal shell. We would have our David back and he would be no more a hostage of his own psyche. That was our plan anyway.

With Trevor at his head and Woody at his feet, we prepared to undertake our grim task. On a quiet count of three, other two braced his feet and his shoulders to prevent his resistance while I seized his hands from where they lay on his chest and readied myself to crush them with a violent squeeze. It could have been a simple thing – his fingers would have easily broken under my strong grip.

But he had to open his eyes.

The moment we touched him, his eyes flew open and he looked from one to the other of us in bewilderment for a moment before realising what we were about to do. His quickness to understand told me that he had been expecting something like this for some time. And once understanding dawned on his features, his eyes never left mine. He knew the weakness in our plan. It was me.

He made no real attempt to struggle, knowing that aggression on his part might make me harden my resolve. He simply squirmed a bit and made himself look even more helpless than he already had, while quietly begging me not to hurt him.

“Please... please don’t do it,” he said, staring directly into my eyes with his piercing multi-colour gaze, his look sad and filled with silent pleading.

His hands had come to life the minute he awoke and I couldn’t help but stare at them as I held them in my own. They were white and soft – long delicate fingers that were tipped with thick calluses, palms criss-crossed by the dark creases that told of their owner’s life. The nails were shapely, pink and white – beautifully free of paint – and on the backs of the hands ran innumerable small veins, their turquoise colour clearly visible through the translucent skin.

They flexed and fluttered like small frightened animals in my firm grip, vainly trying to escape the deadly trap. In contrast to my own large, rough, slightly brutish-looking hands, they were as sculptures of flesh. With each moment that I beheld them, I became more and more lost to the awful cause I had set out to accomplish.

“Do it!” urged Woody, but I didn’t even look at him; I was caught in the oceanic depths of Ziggy’s gaze.

Awake, as in sleep, he was achingly beautiful. Flame-coloured hair framed an alabaster countenance tinged with rose in the cheeks and lips. Narrow, arching cheekbones slid down to touch the corners of a wide, neatly measured mouth. This was topped with a short, gracefully pointed nose whose sloped shape recalled the flawless curve of a vaulted cathedral ceiling. The softly triangular jaw was strong, but not overtly masculine, lending itself perfectly to the ideal androgyny of his face and body. With a mostly nondescript brow bone, there was nothing to detract from the narrow, but sparklingly intelligent eyes that made the centrepiece of an arrestingly beautiful face.

They were eyes that could charm almost anyone that looked into them, and they frequently did so. One cornflower blue and the other mint green, his eyes seemed to promise a view far into the depths of his soul, when, in fact, they revealed nothing at all.

It was into this impossibly perfect visage that I was irresistibly drawn and I was frozen contemplating the thing I was supposed to do.

“Oh come on, Mick, just do it; don’t give in to him!”

“He’s crying his crocodile tears again. Just ignore him. He _needs_ this.”

Woody and Trevor’s urgings did nothing for me, however. I knew very well how manipulative Ziggy could be when he wanted something – adapting his technique for his particular victim as easily as water flowed from surface to surface. And with me all he needed to use was his beauty. I was practically a slave to it, no matter how much I wanted to think otherwise. One look of pain on that lovely face could bring me to my knees.

The very thought of twisting and mangling his perfect hands – hearing the bones snap and watching their shapes become hideously deformed with swelling as they turned black and purple – was repugnant to me. My own hands began to tremble slightly at the thought of it.

The final decision came quickly and it was, of course, Ziggy who made it. He was known to burst into tears at the slightest provocation, and as this attack of ours was much more than just _slightly_ upsetting to him, we soon found ourselves an audience to one of his weepy displays.

And I call it a ‘display’ because I could never be sure anymore just who was crying. Was it David, the man I knew and cared about, or was it the unrelentingly manipulative superstar who had to always have his way? I was inclined to think the latter. And yet, whatever my logical inclinations were, they had no bearing on my actions. I found myself irresistibly persuaded by Ziggy’s apparent sorrow, choosing to believe we had really connected with the person he had hidden away inside himself. He made no sound, excepting the occasional loud sniff, but streams of fat tears were streaking his face, falling from his chin to dampen his shirt and lie, sparkling, on his chest. He looked so pitifully unhappy that I couldn’t stand to look at him anymore.

I thrust his hands away from myself. “Stop crying,” I said angrily. I turned away from him and walked to the other side of the small room to attempt to regain my composure.

I wasn’t angry at him so much as at myself. Angry that all of my determination, all of my will, all of my sense of purpose could be driven from my person by the sight of a single tear rolling down his porcelain face.

“Aw, Mick! I thought you were really gonna help us this time!”

Trevor and Woody gave up and disgustedly left the room.

I stayed, berating myself internally and listening to David’s quiet sniffling behind me on the couch.

I started with surprise when I felt a hand lightly touch my shoulder. I turned my head to see David standing beside me, all traces of his tears gone but for a damp spot on his shirt.

“Thank you, Mick. I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” he said, catching my eyes and smirking in a way that told me he was fully aware of the power he held over me. The smile chilled me. I had been interacting with no one but Ziggy all along.

He let his lovely, unharmed white hand slip softly down my arm before gliding silently to the door. With a last flashed glimpse of his knowing smirk, he vanished from the doorway as though he’d never been there at all.

~

**Author's Note:**

> Not the way I would normally characterise Ronno, but I thought it was interesting nonetheless.
> 
> This was, of course, based on lyrics from _Ziggy Stardust._


End file.
